


I Can't Fly Without You

by UndeservingHero



Category: DC Animated Universe, DCU (Comics)
Genre: Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-01
Updated: 2017-06-01
Packaged: 2018-11-07 20:39:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,282
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11066703
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/UndeservingHero/pseuds/UndeservingHero
Summary: "You're all I've got, Clark. You're all I've ever had," Bruce said before he jumped off the roof.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [BatShitCrazy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BatShitCrazy/gifts).



> This is really really old, but I was asked to put it up here. 
> 
> I still like it despite its age. 
> 
> It's been discontinued, but I think it can be left alone where it is.

"Bruce?" The baritone voice came from his right, soft but not quite gentle. The sound was almost lost in the reverberations of the bar.

He didn't look over, but he raised an eyebrow to show the intruder on his thoughts he was listening. A sigh, heavy and deep, came from his long-time friend. At that, Bruce finally looked up from his scotch. Clear blue eyes were studying him. "What, Clark?" His voice was a little rougher than he meant it to be, but he wasn't quite sure if that was from the scotch or some emotion he was trying to suppress.

Clark looked at him for a long time, dark brows cranked down over his baby blues. At last, he spoke, barely heard over the volume of the bar. "Bruce, how long are you going to keep this up? You can't live like this forever."

Bruce turned back to his scotch. "Which aspect of my life are you referring to?" He knew Clark didn't mean the hero stuff. That, he was good at. No, he knew what Clark was going to say. Probably even before his friend did.

When he spoke, the Man of Steel's voice was rough, "I mean, how long are you going to keep up the ruse with all of the drinking, and the partying…" He paused. In a quieter voice he said, "And the women."

Bruce considered the deep amber coloured liquid as he swirled it in his glass. If he didn't know better, he would think Clark might be upset with his recent streak of twenty different women in as many days. But he did know better. Clark was just concerned that he was going to drink himself to death before he could reach old age. To be honest, he had considered trying.

When Clark cleared his throat, he dragged his attention back to those blue eyes that belonged to the one person who had saved his life more than once. At that moment, Bruce decided two things: one, he wasn't nearly drunk enough for this conversation; two, that he no longer cared.

He looked his best friend in the face and told him the truth for the first time in a very long time. "Clark, I'm going to keep partying, drinking and fucking until one of two things happens. It's either going to kill me, or you're going to realize I honestly don't give a fuck about anyone else but you, what you do, or what you think." Solemnly, he downed his drink. "You're all I've got, Clark. You're all I've ever had." He cleared his throat and stood, throwing a hundred on the bar.

He left the crowded, cramped place and struck out onto the streets of Gotham. As he looked at the sky, he noticed it was reflecting his black mood, iron grey clouds rolled overhead, threatening rain, reflecting the orange light of the halogen lamps.

As the first drops fell, a heavy hand landed on his shoulder, spinning him around. He looked Clark in the eye, trying to gauge his mood behind his horn-rimmed glasses. Not many men could with his 6'4" frame, but that was only one of the many things Bruce liked about him. Since the moment he walked out of the bar, Clark's eyes had turned a soft brown, like velvet. It was unintentional on his part. His emotions wanted him to be seen as human for the moment. He opened his mouth to speak, but closed it, square jaw chewing on whatever he had been about to say.

Instead, he forcefully pulled Bruce to him, crushing him in a hug. Shock overwhelmed him for a millisecond before he clung to the only real friend he'd ever had, the only person who had never wanted anything from him but friendship. He crumpled Clark's suit jacket in his hands. His breath came on short pulls, trying to hold back years of emotional build-up.

He felt the ground fall away under his shoes and come back seconds later. He knew Clark had flown them a short distance but he couldn't bring himself to care where they had gone. His friend tightened his grip on his shoulders and said two words: "Let go."

The emotional wall he had so carefully built was obliterated by Clark's soft words. His knuckles cracked as he gripped tighter into the fabric of Clark's coat as tears, hot and fast, slid down his hard face. When he would have fallen, steel held him up. He let go, truly let go of all the self-hatred and longing, responsibilities and duties. There, in the arms of Superman, he was just Bruce. He was just a man who had lost everyone and carried it around with him always. The self-hatred that made him build the walls in the first place drained out of him. In those brief moments, he was a lonely man being comforted against longing and pain. Sobs racked his chest. Strong fingers kneaded his neck, relaxing him physically, dropping the last of his defences.

He felt naked, an empty shell, but he felt lighter, better than he could remember ever feeling. Slowly, he came back to himself. His forehead was pressed into Clark's shoulder, rain misted, soaking through their clothes, and dripping down from his hair to his face, mixing with his tears and washing them away. He relaxed his painful grip on the soft fabric and dropped his arms but didn't raise his head. Clark was still gently rubbing his neck.

Ashamed of his actions, he said in a choked voice, "I… I'm sorry, Clark."

Those fingers paused, then continued. "Bruce, don't ever apologize for being human. You don't ever have to apologize for feeling."

A sigh escaped him. "I've just… I've never had anyone, Clark." He finally looked up to meet his friend's eyes, which were back to blue, pushing wet hair off his forehead. He didn't drop his hand from Bruce's neck. "Then you came along and just kind of steal away all of the fucking boundaries and walls I've built." He took a deep breath "It's just not fair, Clark."

A small smile tilted up the corners of Clark's mouth. "Nothing good is ever easy." The smile fell away and he took Bruce's jaw between his palms. Concern filled his voice as he asked, "Do you feel better?" His blues eyes bored into Bruce's.

He nodded slightly, Clark's rough palms rubbing over his dark stubble that had grown in from his lack of attention. In a quiet voice, he said, "That's not my point, Clark. My point is that you completely demolished me." His usual hard tone came back, setting his jaw even as it sat between those wide palms. "You have the whole world at your feet and yet, you've stolen my everything."

Clark looked confused. "What are you talking about? I haven't stolen from you."

Bruce shook his head. "You _would_ take that literally," he grumbled. He took a breath. "Clark, what I said before was true. You're all I've got. You and Alfred. When you came along, you stole all of my barriers, my hidden identity, and most of all… my heart right out of my fucking chest," he finished quietly, not dropping his eyes.

Clark stumbled back as if struck by an invisible blow, eyes wide, mouth open. "What?"

Bruce snorted and studied him. The rain had plastered his hair to his head and jaw. Droplets slid over his face and soaked his coat. He turned around to look out over the low mismatched skyline from the roof Clark had flown them onto. Crossing his arms over his chest, he said, "You know what I mean, Clark. You're nearly as smart as I am." He paused. "Ironically, it took me forever to figure it out. You know, not even Alfred has been able to get me to let it all go. Thanks, Clark." He spoke to himself, "You're my best friend."

Without looking back, Batman dropped off the side of the building to the sidewalk below, melding with the light foot traffic of late evening, leaving a stunned Clark Kent in his wake, alone on the roof.


	2. Chapter 2

The night wind rustled Superman's hair as he flew through the gusts to his destination. He stopped and floated several hundred feet above the ground and stared at the big house on the hill a half mile away. The lights were on, but that didn't mean his friend was home. For all he knew, Batman had returned to the streets of Gotham.

He slowly flew toward the house, hearing the alarms of an intruder off in the distance. At least Bruce wasn't neglecting his own safety, even if he had momentarily given up on his city. Superman flew up over the grass, dewed from the recent rain. The alarm stopped as he flew over to the window of the library that was once Thomas Wayne's study before the NML. Now, it was wall to wall books with soft chairs near an over-sized hearth. He looked through the leaded glass to find not Bruce, but Alfred sitting in one of the overstuffed chairs. He gently tapped on the window to get the gentlemen's gentleman's attention. Alfred looked up and raised an eyebrow in surprise. He set the tome he had been reading aside and came to the window, unlatching it and pushed it open.

"I say, Superman. We do have a doorbell. And a front door for that matter," Alfred observed after Superman had alighted on the floor.

Superman turned to look at the older man. "I'm sorry, Alfred. It's just, I was looking for Bruce. I apologize for my lack of decorum in my haste."

Alfred waved a hand. "It's fine, Superman. However, Master Bruce hasn't returned, nor is he in the Cave. However, you are welcome to wait upon his return." Superman's shoulders drooped so slightly, Alfred would have missed it if he hadn't been paying attention.

He nodded. "Thanks, Alfred."

The gentlemen's gentleman gestured to the chair across from the one he had been occupying in front of the fire. Superman sat politely, catching his cape and unlatching it from his shoulders, hanging it on the back. Alfred moved to a nearby table and picked up the teapot. "Would you care for tea?"

Superman shook his head. "No, thank you."

Alfred shrugged and poured a cup full and sat, sipping. "So," he began, "what business does Superman have with Bruce Wayne?"

Superman didn't immediately answer, but, after quick consideration, he decided Alfred would be the one person to tell and ask about Bruce. "Business of the unfinished kind," he eventually supplied gravely.

Alfred raised a still dark eyebrow and lowered his cup. "Unfinished, sir?"

Superman looked into the garnet flames in the fireplace and tried to come up with an explanation that would make some kind of sense. Eventually, he asked a question instead, "Alfred, in all the years you have taken care of Bruce, has he ever fallen in love with someone?"

Alfred set his cup and saucer on the table beside him and sat back, considering the question. "Once, a few years ago, in the time Bane ruled Gotham, there was a doctor. I think he loved her. I really do. It was rather tragic that she gave up her brilliant mind to save Master Bruce." He looked into the hearth, the orange light making the lines on his face appear deeper, older. "Master Bruce, you must understand, has a rather hard time caring for anyone. Those he cares for tend to become targets." He met Superman's intense blue eyes. "He does not want to lose them like he lost his parents."

Superman nodded. "That makes sense. I never knew my birth parents, but I know if something ever happened to my Earth parents, I would probably lose it."

The older man inclined his head. "Indeed, but I must ask, why the sudden interest?"

Alfred's honest curiosity let Superman know that Bruce hadn't shared his confidence with him. He paused to consider if it was a good idea and concluded that Alfred loved Bruce enough to help the situation any way he possibly could. So he explained about how worried he had been and their confrontation. And Bruce's revelation.

Alfred took it all rather well, sitting with fingers steepled in front of him, considering the whole situation. After a long moment, he said, "Well, Superman, do you care for Master Bruce?"

Superman dropped his head into his hands, elbows on knees, the muscles of his massive shoulders expanding in the blue spandex of his costume. "Of course I care about him. He's my best friend. I just… I've never thought about it. I've never been particularly interested because I know they will just be found and targeted. Even Wonder Woman." He sighed heavily. "I just don't know what to do." His deep voice carried the despair of being a man torn.

Alfred Pennyworth watched one of Earth's greatest heroes bow to the one thing all men would die to have. "Well, it seems that you have only one option: you must figure it out." He sipped from the tea cup and watched Superman over the rim.

Clark scrubbed his hands through his hair, knocking it loose from the gel he used to keep it back from his face. The midnight locks fell across his forehead as he looked up at Alfred and it occurred to him just how young Superman really was. He was younger than Bruce by a year, but he seemed so much more innocent. Bruce had shadows behind his eyes, cold as glaciers sometimes. Clark was all blue skies and kite flying.

"Master Bruce will more than likely not return 'til morning. Would you care to stay here until he does?" he asked the poor fellow who sat slumped in the old armchair favoured by their favourite person.

Clark stood and shook his head. "I should probably just go and try to find him."

"You did the right thing by coming here. This is his home. He will return here eventually. I promise you, Superman, if Batman doesn't want to be found, not even you will be able to find him. He has many hidey-holes hidden about this city. I don't know all of them. The best thing you can do is wait." Alfred stood and straightened his suit jacket. "I suppose you do sleep like a regular person. Would you care for a bed?"

Superman sighed. "I guess you're right. You know him better than I do. And a bed would be nice. Lead the way." He gestured for Alfred to precede him.

They walked down a carpeted hallway to a small back stairway and up to the guest quarters. He led them down the hall to the last room on the right. Flicking on a light, he held out a sweeping arm. "If you should need anything, sir, just let me know. My room is at the bottom of the stairs." He bowed slightly and turned to go.

"Alfred?" Superman said quietly. The older man raised a brow. He smiled. "Call me Clark, would you? I might be wearing tights, but I'm not feeling very super right now."

He nodded. "As you wish… Clark." He left, closing the door quietly behind him.

Clark looked around, finding himself in a marginally large room with black plush carpet, a single chest-of-drawers, and two doors. The walls were a dark blue that matched the sheets on the bed. He went to the door on the right and opened it, finding a bathroom done in black marble. Overall, it was very masculinely decorated but sparse. There were no pictures or paintings on the walls. No soaps or amenities left about. Everything had a place. He moved to the bed which looked completely too comfortable. He ran a calloused hand over the sheets. Like butter. Nothing but the best for Bruce Wayne.

Sighing, he stripped out of his tights, shedding his responsibilities with them. He sat on the side of the bed for a long moment and stared out at the quiet grounds of the Wayne Manor and just took in the soft beauty of the night. The moonlight was almost non-existent, but he could see the way the trees moved with a slight breeze. Could hear their soft rustling.

He crawled under the blankets and cuddled up with the spare pillow, breathing in the smell of clean linen, he fell quickly into sleep.

 

A soft clicking noise woke Clark and he couldn't remember where he was for a moment and then he knew he wasn't alone. He rolled over and sat up.

Bruce stood near the door. Soft dawn light came through the windows, illuminating the fact that he was only wearing his tights. He looked unaffected as always accept the tightness around his mouth and his brows were drawn down tight over his arctic eyes. "Why are you in my bed?" his tone was harsh. All Batman and no Bruce Wayne.

Clark looked at him dumbly.

Bruce stalked to stand beside him and as he got closer, the angrier he got. "I asked you a question,  _ Clark _ ."

Clark set his jaw and glared up at him. "I was waiting on you and Alfred said I could sleep here. He told me to sleep in here. I didn't know it was your room."

Bruce crossed his arms over his chest and glared back. "Why did you come here?" His tone was no less forgiving.

Clark stood, taking the sheet with him to wrap around his waist. He came up chest-to-chest with Bruce and stared into his face. "I was worried about you. I came to see if you were okay. You weren't here so I sat and talked with Alfred."

At that, Bruce's eyes narrowed. "What did you tell him?"

Clark held up a hand. "Everything. I wanted to know what he thought. He knows you better than anyone."

Bruce just glowered. "And?"

"And I think I know how to answer you. You said I stole your everything…" He turned away and strode to the window, trailing the sheet with him. Anyone else would have looked ridiculous. Clark looked like a Greek God rapped in soft black cotton. "I'm willing to try and give you something in exchange." He placed a hand on the glass, feeling the chilly air outside through it. He turned to look at his best friend. The orange and pink of the sky had coloured Bruce's tanned skin and carved him out in gold. The living statue moved forward to stand in front of him.

Icy eyes met his. "Do you mean that?"

Clark nodded.

Bruce's fist slammed into the Man of Steel's jaw before he even thought about moving and he stumbled back against the window. The cold glass made his back sing with a hiss. When Bruce swung again, he caught his fist and trapped it behind him with the other one, putting them chest against chest. "I'll admit that I deserved the first one." He smiled slightly. "You really are hard to read, Batman. One minute you tell me you love me, the next you punch me for saying it back." Clark smiled at him as he struggled for a brief moment.

Bruce peered at him, jaw squared. "You didn't look too love-struck on that damn rooftop,  _ Superman _ ."

"Will you let me try to explain and not try to punch me through the window this time?" he asked, half grinning.

Bruce sighed, looking road weary and sore. "If I have to."

Clark let go of his wrists and stepped back. Bruce turned and sat on the edge of the bed. He pulled off a boot and made a rolling gesture with his hand, motioning for Clark to keep talking. He pulled off the other one and sat back against the pillows, looking as if he were just relaxing after a long day at work.

Clark paced, still holding the sheet around himself. "You honestly caught me off-guard last night. I never expected that. Then you didn't stay to talk. You just disappeared. I came here and talked to Alfred to try and figure out what was going on. He told me a few things. Things I hadn't considered." He paused and turned to face the bed. "I've never considered being with someone because they could become a target, but it occurred to me that you're  _ already _ a target. On top of that, you're the world's greatest detective. If anyone could survive being with me, it would be you." He watched Bruce but he didn't move. "I've never thought that I  _ could _ have a relationship with anyone, but now that I consider my options you're really the only one who counts." He crossed to sit on the edge of the bed. "Bruce, you're brilliant, but on top of that, I respect you more than anyone else I know. I know we don't agree on some things." Bruce snorted. "Okay. A lot of things, but so do a lot of people who stay together."

He watched Bruce and saw the moment he started to believe him. His shoulders relaxed and his jaw softened slightly. "Fine, you big asshole. I believe you. Now what?"

"Sleep," he said, shrugging.

"Sleep?"

"Yes, you dummy. You've been out all night. And you're cranky. Sleep," he said laughing at the petulant look Bruce gave him. He crawled back up to where he'd been earlier and pulled the heavy comforter over both of them.

"What are you doing?"

"Sleeping. Indulging. I don't do it often. I usually only sleep for four hours." He settled further down. "'M missing something though."

He felt a shift from the other side of the bed. Bruce had settled down. "What?"

He reached over and wrapped an arm around him, hauling him over tight against him.

Bruce muttered in French about stupid people and their need to cuddle.

Clark laughed. "French is much nicer when you speak it versus my teacher in college."

He stopped muttering and rolled over to face Clark. Dawn had softened Bruce's face and made him look younger, almost quizzical. "I didn't know you spoke French."

He smirked. "You never asked. Mon chére."

He punched him in the arm. "Dick."

"Clark, actually. I'm offended. We made it into bed together and you don't even remember my name," he said seriously. Bruce punched him harder and he cracked up, laughing until his sides hurt.

Bruce lie on his back, smiling up at the ceiling. "You're such an asshole."

Clark grinned. "Yeah, but you love me."

Bruce's smile stayed put. "Yeah, I do."

Clark pulled him close again. "Sleep. Gotham needs her Knight back. I'm not going anywhere." Bruce sighed and relaxed fully for the first time in twenty years.


	3. Chapter 3

Bruce woke slowly, groggy with the depth of his slumber. Heat wrapped soft, cloying hands around him and the heavy arm around his waist clutched him tightly to the body behind him. Small, warm puffs of air danced with the hair that curled at his nape, almost a tickle. He repressed a shudder, noticing that during the day, Clark had shoved his leg in between his own. He smiled at the peculiarity of Bruce Wayne sleeping with someone whom wasn't female. Especially someone like Clark.

He watched out the window as the darkness chased the sun. Non-too-gently, the arm around his waist tightened. He grunted quietly at the new pressure. Sighing, he decided wriggling out was an impossibility. Resigned to his fate, he relaxed further against Clark and thought of the morning.

When he had walked in to find Clark Kent naked in his bed, he had been beyond furious. He should have known Clark would never be capable of  _ that _ sort of cunning. Poor guy was as subtle as breaking glass. He should have known Alfred had something to do with it.

An owl flew from over the roof to a tree near the window and hooted softly.

The voice from the man behind him startled him when he asked, "What are you so pensive about?"

He gave a small smile at the pure huskiness of a sleepy Clark's voice. "Just thinking about how Alfred is due for a good long vacation in Africa."

Clark chuckled, the vibration passed through Bruce's own chest. "Why Africa?"

"The old man needs to stop sticking his nose into my business. Africa would be a prime place for him to run around and terrorize the native peoples."

Clark laughed in earnest, shaking Bruce slightly with his mirth. "Oh, I would pay to see that."

"Of course you would. You didn't grow up with him around," Bruce grumbled.

"True, but I had Ma around to box my ears," he said with affection.

Bruce lay silent for a moment. "Clark?" He got a noise in response so he asked, "What's your mother like?"

Clark pressed his mouth to Bruce's shoulder, brushing over a raised scar, almost as if he had to consider what to say. "Well, Ma has always been headstrong. She used to have fiery red hair and she has a smile that can just make you feel like you're home. She loves my Pa still. And he loves her. A lot. She took me in even though she had no idea where I'd even come from." He paused and Bruce heard him clear his throat quietly, as if to get rid of emotion. "When my powers developed, they both took it in stride and helped me cope." He squeezed his waist. "They're good, tender people who took on raising an alien without thinking twice."

Bruce digested that. What Clark had just said was exactly what he had expected. He adored his parents and he didn't hide it. "Clark?" he asked softly.

"Yes?" came the reply, just as tender.

"Do you think I could meet them, your parents, I mean? You know… someday…" he stopped in embarrassment. Bruce Wayne didn't meet parents. True, but neither did he confess love.

Clark turned him so he could see his face and propped his head up on his elbow. Black hair stuck out at weird angles, making him look twenty. Soft blue eyes were beaming at him. "Well, of course. Do you like apple pie?" he asked.

Bruce was baffled. "Apple pie?"

"Yeah." Clark gestured. "Ma makes a killer apple pie. Just wanted to know if you liked it." He grinned; his white teeth stood out against his skin in the dark. "She always makes two because Pa and I always split one."

He shook his head at the man he was lying next to. It hadn't even fazed Clark when he'd asked if he could meet his family. He was more concerned with his pie preference. He let himself smile.

"What?" Clark asked after a moment of silence.

"You amaze me. You worry more about pie than you do over whether or not your parents will like me."

Clark seemed bemused. "Well, why wouldn't they?"

Bruce sighed. "I'm a billionaire playboy. And I'm narcissistic."

Clark laughed again. "Oh! That! They know who you are. And before you get mad, I told them because you're my best friend. I didn't want them to dislike you before they met you."

"Met me?" Bruce couldn't follow Clark.

"Well, yeah, you're my best friend. I was going to drag you home with me one of these days."

Bruce stared at him in amazement. It had never even occurred to Clark  _ not _ to take him home to meet his parents. "You realize that I love you, right?"

Clark's brows pulled down over his eyes. "I thought we went over that last night?"

"I love you already, so you can stop making me find new reasons to love you even more," he said as he looked into those gloriously honest eyes.

"What  _ are _ you talking about?" Clark demanded.

"It never occurred to you that we're both men did it?" he asked bluntly.

His eyes clouded with confusion. "No, why does it matter?"

"It doesn't to me, Clark. Some people don't care. Most don't nowadays, but there are those that would make a big deal about it." He reached up and pushed some hair back from Clark's face. "I was just mildly concerned as to how your parents might react."

Clark relaxed. "Oh, they won't care. They honestly don't care about any of that. 'Live and let live' is their life's motto."

Bruce chuckled. "You really are the all-American dream child aren't you?"

Clark had the decency to look sheepish. "Well, I did play football in high school."

Bruce smirked. "Of course you did."

Clark almost looked wistful as he delved into his memories. "Yeah. Pa didn't want me to though."

Bruce crinkled his brow in confusion. "Why not?"

Clark shrugged. "He was afraid I would hurt someone or show boat."

"Did you hurt anyone?" Bruce had never heard Clark talk about Smallville.

Clark nodded. "I broke a kid's clavicle when he tried to tackle me and I didn't go down fast enough."

"You're joking… Your father was worried about you hurting other people and the kid hurt  _ himself _ because you're too… hard… all over?"

Clark chuckled. "Well… yeah…"

"Jesus…" Bruce shook his head and felt bad for the kid who had tried to tackle Superman.

Clark almost pouted. Almost. "I can't help it."

Bruce just sighed. "I know… I know…"

Clark looked thoughtful for a moment. "Can I use your phone?"

Bruce raised an eyebrow. "I thought you had a cell phone."

He looked sheepish. "I can't carry it when I'm in my tights."

Bruce looked at the ceiling. "God help me." He looked back over at Clark giving him an obstinate glare. "I am making you a tool belt. I won't take 'no'."

He just smiled. "Okay. Phone?"

Bruce rolled his eyes. "Table. I'm going to shower."

"Right," Clark said as he rolled over to the phone.

He rose from the bed and went into the bathroom. His home felt different to him now. It wasn't just him and Alfred for the moment. The thought made him smile as he stripped out of his tights.

The warm water washed away the grime and dried sweat of the night before, easing all of the tense muscles. When he wiped the fog on the mirror away, he got a good look at himself. His hair was sticking up at odd angles. Sharp blue eyes peered out from under obsidian brows. Dark stubble lined his jaw. He opened a drawer to take out a razor, then glanced back up at himself. And closed the drawer. A little stubble never hurt anyone.

When he left the bathroom with a towel around his hips, Clark was lounging on the bed. His tousled hair was across his forehead and he looked blissed out. He noticed the tray with an empty plate on the bed next to him and chuckled. "Alfred's been by, then?"

"Absolutely. I missed real food. I can't cook to save my life." He grinned. "I have plenty of people that do it for me though."

Bruce chuckled. "That you do." He went to his closet and pulled out a pair of jeans. The denim was soft as he pulled them on. Years of wear instead of design had ripped and washed them out. As he zipped them, he perused his collection of shirts.  _ Too many suits _ , he thought with disgust. He found a blue shirt that had been neatly folded and laid on a shelf. Instantly, he started laughing.  _ Alfred, you wily old bastard. _

He shook it out and pulled it over his head. Smoothing the fabric over his chest, he smiled, amused.

"What's so funny?" Clark called from the bedroom.

"Alfred found his sense of humour after thirty years," he said as he strode out into the room.

Clark looked up from pulling on his tights and froze. Bruce held a straight face, expecting a laugh, until Clark's face changed. He went from shock to something serious. He walked toward Bruce, all power. Clark was gone. Kal El peered out of cool blue eyes.

"Clark?" Slight trepidation slid up his spine. "Clark, what's wrong?"

Superman's voice was deeper than normal as he laid a hand in the middle of the symbol on Bruce's chest. "This is the symbol of the House of El. My birthright."

Bruce's eyes widened and he was unsure for the first time in his life. "Clark, I didn't know." He started to lift the hem to pull it off but strong hands stayed his own.

He looked back up. The eyes that had been so powerful a moment before were brown again. "No. Don't." He struggled with words for a moment, conflicting emotions warred on his face. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to upset you." He looked down. "Jor El took over my brain for a minute. Words he once said ran over me." The hand returned to the yellow "S" on Bruce's chest. "Wear it. I want you to."

Bruce stood caught between two wants. Finally, he asked, "What did Jor El tell you?"

He looked supremely uncomfortable. "He said, 'The House of El is your birthright, Kal El. But no one shall carry on the El name. You are the last.' I always thought he meant I was the last Kryptonian, but that isn't what he said. He meant I wouldn't have children." His brown eyes glittered slightly with unshed tears. "Bruce, he knew I would end up with you. I don't know how, but he knew."

Bruce's throat closed up as he fought back his own tears. He covered the hand on his chest and pulled it around behind himself. Clark slumped against him. They clung to each other. "Clark…" He rubbed his back, trying to ease the tension. "Clark, it's alright."

Clark slowly stood up straight and wiped his eyes with the heels of his hands. "You're right." The baby blues were back as he looked at Bruce. "I'm sorry."

He shook his head. "Don't be. I'm sorry that happened. I'm sorry… Well, I'm sorry for a lot of things I can't control or change, really."

He nodded. "I am too. I… uh… I'm going to shower. Alright?"

Bruce gestured toward the door he had just exited. "You can borrow clothes, too, if you like."

Clark smiled. "Thanks."

He watched him go. The powerful muscles that had defeated countless foes rolled with his movements. Even in light of their recent conversation, Bruce found himself adjusting in his jeans. Disgruntled at his body's reaction, he went down to the kitchen in search of food.

 

"Good evening, Master Bruce," came the old cultured English voice he had grown up with as he closed the refrigerator with an apple in his mouth and a glass of milk. To Alfred, he resembled nothing more than young Master Richard at thirteen more than a thirty year old billionaire.

He bit off the part of his apple already in his mouth. After chewing, he said, "Hi, Alfred."

Alfred raised an eyebrow at the t-shirt he had planted in Bruce's closet. "A change in wardrobe, I see, Master Bruce."

He glanced down at the golden "S" and looked back up. His eyes glittered with annoyance. "You know  _ exactly _ where this came from, Alfred." There was slight humour in his voice but a little irritation too. "I've decided you need a vacation… in Africa."

Alfred smothered a chuckle. "I haven't been on Safari in over thirty-five years, Master Bruce. I'm quite out of practice by now, I'm sure."

"Uh-huh… That's why you brandished an elephant gun at Clark when Luthor ordered his death." Mirth lit his eyes.

He shrugged in a dignified way. "I thought it might at least give them pause, even if I did miss."

Bruce tossed the core of his apple in the rubbish bin. "Alfred, you don't miss."

"Very true, sir."

Bruce laughed at that. And Alfred gave silent thanks to a red-caped crusader. Bruce chugged his milk and rinsed out the glass. "I'm going to the Cave if you need me." He smiled and waved as he left to go to the piano room.

Alfred shook his head in wonder at the difference between the Batman that had arrived that morning and the Bruce Wayne that had just walked out the door. Humming an old sea chantey to himself, he went about washing dishes.

Clark came in not long after. Seeing Alfred, he asked, "Have you seen Bruce?"

Alfred said, "Yes, he went to the Cave not long ago." Before Clark could leave, he said, "I would like to thank you, Master Clark."

Clark turned around. Dark brows were low over his eyes in confusion. "Why?"

Alfred set down the glass he had been drying. "Master Bruce came in here earlier. Master Clark, I haven't seen him happy since he was eight years old. This evening, he smiled and waved and threatened to send me to Africa. Because of you."

The taller man scratched the back of his neck. "I thought I'd talked him out of the Africa thing."

Alfred waved a hand. "My point is, you made him the happiest I've seen him in over twenty years. Thank you."

Clark fumbled for words. "I… I don't know what to say, Alfred."

He smiled. "You don't have to. Go on. I'm sure you have places to be."

Clark grinned and flashed to the piano room.

Alfred smiled to himself, glad to have real laughter in the manor again.

 

"Clark, where are we going?" Bruce asked again after a few minutes of silent flying. Usually, he hated when Clark picked him up and took off with him, but this was a bit different. He was blindfolded for one. Clark didn't say anything so he gave up trying to get it out of him. Almost thirty minutes later, they landed with a soft sound.

He was thankful when he was on the ground again. "Where are we?" he asked as he reached up to take off his blindfold.

"We're home," was all Clark said.

The blackness of the cloth gave way to the soft lights of a farmhouse. He looked at Clark. "Toto, are we in Kansas again?"

He chuckled. "You got it, Dorothy." He pulled on Bruce's hand and dragged him up the steps and walked into the kitchen. "Ma, we're home," he called into the house.

Bruce looked around. It was everything a farmhouse should be. Chequered cloth lay over the table. The smell of pie in the oven cloyed his nose. Warm tin-punch lamps lit the island in the middle of it. A refrigerator that was a refugee from the fifties stood beside the door. A lovely woman in her mid-fifties came around the corner, in an old style dress with a white apron tied around her waist. The smile on her face could have melted butter. "Clark!" She hustled over to him and he picked her up in a bear hug.

"Hi, Ma!" He set her down gently, a look of open love on his face.

Her sharp green eyes found Bruce's but the smile stayed in place. "You must be Bruce. You're even more handsome in person." She stepped forward and hugged him. "Welcome home, dear." He couldn't move. He was so overwhelmed. She pulled away and took his face in her strong, wrinkled hands. "You are always welcome here, Bruce Wayne." Her eyes sparkled with the misting of emotion.

He felt his own dew. He covered her hands with his and said, "Thank you." His chest felt wobbly and it took everything he had not to just fall to his knees and weep.

She slowly released his face and clasped his hands between them. Then she turned to her son. "I like this one, Clark."

He chortled. "I knew you would. He has your kind of sense of humour."

"Martha?" came a male inquiry from the next room. "Clark here?" Jonathan Kent came through the doorway and beamed at his son. "Clark!" the Kent men met in the middle and shook hands. They exchanged a few words, then the elder turned his attention to their other guest. "You have to be Bruce Wayne." He eyed Martha's hands on his. "Best not be thinking about stealing my gal there."

"Oh… um…" Bruce stammered, flustered, but Martha didn't let go of his hands.

"He's just teasing, dear," she whispered.

"Oh… Right." He looked abashed.

Jonathan stepped forward and extended his hand. "Welcome home, son."

Bruce slowly raised his hand to meet the work roughened palm of the farmer. He couldn't find words. The World's Greatest Detective was struck speechless by two of the most humble people on the planet.

Clark came to his rescue. "I'm going to show Bruce around." He stepped toward him. "We'll be in the barn."

His mother smiled. "Of course. I'll get the pies out of the oven. You two come back when you feel like it."

The Man of Steel took the shell-shocked Dark Knight by the arm and led him back outside. Once they were in the barn, he led Bruce up to what had once been a hay loft. A telescope and a couch and tables were set up. Dust had accumulated but he could tell it had been well-loved in the past.

Clark patted out a chair and sat Bruce down in it. He squatted in front of him. "I'm sorry. They can be a little much—"

Bruce covered his mouth. "Please don't apologize. Please." His usually deep voice cracked. "In the ten minutes I was in that house, I have never felt more loved or accepted. Don't ever apologize for giving me that."

Clark kissed his palm and moved it away from his mouth. "That's why I wanted to bring you here. I want you to feel that way all the time. You can come here any time, any day, and they will always treat you that way. That's what I was trying to convey earlier, but you have to feel it before you really get it." He paused. “My mother has the superpower of loving everyone who walks into her kitchen."

"I believe it," he said quietly. Bruce looked out the big doors that opened to the night sky. "I wish I could give something in return."

Clark stood and extended his hand. "You can. Come on."

Bruce looked up. "What do you mean?"

"You can eat her pie and tell her you love it. To Ma, that is the epitome of love."

Bruce chuckled. "I think I can manage that," he said, sliding his hand into Clark's.

 

They enjoyed the evening with the Kents and flew back to Gotham late into the night. When they landed back at the Manor, Bruce looked up at the great stone building that had been his home for his entire life. "It seems different now," he admitted.

Clark made a noise of agreement. "Less gloomy…" he commented.

Bruce nodded. "Somehow…"

Mounting the wide steps, they were greeted by Alfred. He told them of a phone call from Commissioner Gordon. Bruce made a mental note to call him back at noon the next day. Clark followed him down into the Cave and sat in a chair near the computer bank. Bruce tapped at the computer for a while, making sure the League was in good shape, checking reports for any major movements in the underbelly of the world. Clark watched for a long time, observing the Detective at work. The oddity of his own House Crest on Bruce's chest made him consider a lot of things he had never really given any thought to before. In a rare introspective mood, Clark brooded.

 


End file.
